


Once More, In a Whisper

by Novels



Series: Reprise [13]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Epilogue, I'm feeling emotional, Idiots in Love, M/M, book-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 11:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20723174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: This is the conclusion ofReprise.Lots of soft feelings and happy times lie ahead.





	Once More, In a Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful people... It's finished!  
Thank you for reading until the end, it's been a wonderful story to write <3
> 
> One tiny note: below you'll find mentions of Plato's [Other Half](https://www.laphamsquarterly.org/eros/platos-other-half).  
If you don't know what it is, here's the awfully summarised version: Plato believed originally a human had four hands, four legs, four eyes, two mouths, two noses etc etc but the Gods didn't like that, so they split him in two and condemned the two halves to look for each other endlessly. And that was how love was born.  
And if this isn't fitting for this story, I don't know what is :)
> 
> Enjoy!

My fingers flew over the keys, chasing the melody, bickering with the notes as they left the piano to reach the audience, dancing through the air, swirling, rippling, tingling. They were the clear laughter of a delighted child as he hid behind a tree, running away from his mother, the sweet giggle of a lover surprised by an unexpected kiss, and the warm, unrestrained chuckle of a friend sincerely amused by a joke. 

Unbridled happiness as I let the music speak for me, as I told her all she needed to know, as I bared my soul to the melody and let the rhythm dictate my heartbeats. 

We conversed, and we understood each other, and we embraced each other, and finally we let go of each other. As the last notes echoed in the auditorium and the crowd exploded in a deafening applause, I looked at him, in the front row, staring back at me with those incredible blue eyes of his, and felt the same connection, the same deep understanding that cannot be expressed with words but is nonetheless there, nonetheless true. 

I bowed, and bowed, and basked in the adoration of the audience -- of him. La Scala was roaring with applause, the claps catching in the incredible acoustics of the venue and booming, loud and overwhelming. And then they were all standing, and there were whistles, and a few shouts, and I stood there some moments more, my hands clasped together, looking at my audience, at those beautifully dressed people who had been granted, for an instant, a glimpse into my very soul and had been so touched, so moved by it they couldn't bear to sit still anymore. 

One last bow, one last glance at him, and then I stepped off the stage, and it was over. 

It would be the most heartfelt concert of my life and people would go on talking about it for years. Something new was born as Elio Perlman poured his everything into one of the most touching live performances I have ever had the honour to attend, a critic would write the following day.

To an extent, he was right. I did pour my soul into the music that night, and yet I did not feel empty. No, where an emptiness was supposed to be, unadulterated joy was brimming over. 

Life in technicolour, life shining bright, life iridescent. How can the love of a person change you so much? 

I asked Oliver later that night, in my flat in Milan, still crackling with pent-up energy.

"Remember Plato's Other Half?" he replied quietly as we both looked out of the window. It was a cold, late November night and the streets were empty, their long lines disrupted only by the shadows of their street lights. Oliver was hugging me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. I could see his reflection staring at me. I nodded minutely. He placed a tiny kiss on my ear before he whispered ancient words into it.

"And so, when a person meets the half that is his very own, whatever his orientation, whether it’s two young men or not, then something wonderful happens: the two are struck from their senses by love, by a sense of belonging to one another, and by desire, and they don’t want to be separated from one another, not even for a moment." Oliver and I were staring at each other through our reflections. Time seemed inconsequential as he talked to me about desire, about belonging, about love, pure and perfect. "I have read these words so many times, Elio, and I have never failed to think of you. Not once, not ever." My other half, my better part, that I thought I had lost forever.

I shivered in his arms and he hugged me tighter, pulled me impossibly closer, and as I turned in his arms to kiss him, I thought Plato's Gods were right to fear man as a whole, to be wary of two half souls merging once more into one being, because what Oliver and I had felt like it could burn up the sun. 

*

The villa didn't look any different from that winter twenty years ago. The old house, the orchard, the rusty gate to the beach, everything had remained the same, a place out of time, spared by the events. Oliver and I stepped out of the car and stared at it for a moment. So many memories still lived here, roaming the halls, the empty rooms. It was where everything had begun, and ended, and then begun once more. It was a place of unprecedented happiness and sorrow, of secrets and confessions, of despair and consolation. 

We were alone as we walked into the kitchen, leaving the shopping bags behind. The house was chilly, the air smelled of dust. No-one had been here in the past three months, my mother and Mafalda having returned to Milan for the winter. Soon they would join us, soon Oliver's children would fill the house with laughter, and shouts, and music. But for a few days more, we would be alone.

We went upstairs, to my old bedroom. It was the first time in twenty years that we were there together. Oliver pulled me close as we stared at the joined beds, kissing my head softly. 

"I thought I would never see you again here with me," he said. I could feel in his voice the same hint of wonder that I felt every time I turned in our bed and found him snoring next to me. 

"Me too. I'm glad we were both wrong."

He turned to me and took my face in his hands. His thumbs caressed my cheekbones as he looked me in the eyes. "Thank you for waiting for me."

I reached out and brushed my hand against his cheek. "Thank you for coming back."

In the past four months, we had talked a lot about our lives apart, our life together. We had opened up about the pain, we had confessed our repressed desires, we had declared our love in every way possible, whispering, shouting, laughing. 

But talking about it here, where it all began, somehow felt more honest than ever. It felt real, it felt like we were being blessed, it felt like coming home, where we belonged with each other, and no one else.

As we fell on the dusty bed, kissing deeply, stripping hastily, touching hungrily, careless about making noise because there was no one in miles that could hear us, everything fell back into place. And looking back at two young lovers that lost each other and found their way back didn't feel like regret, didn't even feel like envy, it felt like a beginning.

And then, in a whisper, once more, Oliver called me by his name, and I called him by mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I have no words to express the gratitude I feel for everyone who read, left kudos, commented and bookmarked this story.  
I started writing _Reprise_ because I couldn't stop thinking about Elio and Oliver; I continued writing it because I found the most wonderful readers.  
Thank you for sticking with my story until the very end. <3


End file.
